


bleeding heart

by skiesaflame



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Animal Death, Character Study, Gen, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 02:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18769063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skiesaflame/pseuds/skiesaflame
Summary: Their world, by nature, should rip people like Okita apart and reassemble the pieces into a crueler image.





	bleeding heart

Dawn paints the skies a strip of warm autumn hues that press against the dark night, like watercolour running over thick ink. As night ebbs into day, the rustling of leaves becomes less a sign of potential danger and more of a natural occurrence as the sun rises in greeting to the waking. 

Hijikata rises early, a habit ingrained into his routine through stern repetition, and readies for the day at a steady pace. He stretches out his limbs, dresses with no time spent lingering on stray thoughts, and securely fastens his blade at his side. 

The morning air is cool against his skin and holds no traces of the stench of blood and smoke and gunpowder that pollutes a battlefield. Hijikata doesn’t bother savouring it. He’s detached himself from such futile sentimentality long ago. Any day could scrape into bloodshed, regardless of its peaceful beginnings. 

The encampment is relatively still, the quiet echoing almost hauntingly in comparison to the usual clutter and bustle. He gives a clipped nod in the direction of the men standing guard, sharp and impersonal. His eyes flick up to the sky. He frowns. It’s earlier than he thought. 

He passes time checking supplies and then re-checking them moments later. The brief tranquility is foreign and toys with his nerves. His hands are best at fighting, commanding, not fidgeting listlessly. He considers rousing the sleeping men loudly, but a moment's respite had been promised after another hard won battle, and despite caring little for complaints from battered bodies or grieving souls, Hijikata‘s words are iron and he refuses to go back on them, let alone on those of the man above him. His restlessness finally getting the better of him, he stalks away into the surroundings a ways off. 

The early morning chill is beginning to melt in the warming sunlight. The sky is clear and shows no signs of clouding over. Hijikata’s steps thud against the ground violently, but even this does not truly disturb the calm. 

A change of pace comes in the form of Okita’s hunched over form. Hijikata’s eyebrows furrow. What once might’ve been concern or curiosity in the days of their childhood has spoilt into irritation, a reprimand hangs on his tongue.

“Okita,” Hijikata’s voice cuts harshly through the mild breeze and light chirping of birds. 

“Hijikata-san,” Okita murmurs in greeting. Her voice is soft and distant, devoid of any of her usual politeness in the faraway drift of her tone. She doesn’t stand or turn to face him. 

Hijikata circles around to face her. Okita doesn’t look up. His stare snaps to the bird cradled in her hands. He’s heard the type’s name before, though the memory only crackles statically at the back of his mind. He can’t quite recall the face that he’d heard it from. He doesn’t try to. Whether said by mother, brother, sister or lover, it doesn’t matter all the same. 

Okita’s hands are gentle as they cup the bird’s broken body in her palms, despite the slight tremor he sees. The bird’s one wing sticks out at an odd angle, and what little is left of the other is defined by protruding bone, tattered skin and a mess of feathers. He sees fresh blood matted against its chest, but cannot pick out the primary wound it’s leaked from. 

“You’re getting blood on your hands and risking disease,” Hijikata says flatly. 

An unreadable expression flits across Okita’s face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Hijikata doesn’t quite know what or who she’s apologising to, but then again, he doesn’t fully grasp a fair amount of Okita’s motivations.

“It’s strange. I’ve cut down so many men in my life, pushed through whatever hesitation dulled my blade, but looking at this helpless bird - a life far less significant in comparison - I’m struck with remorse that runs deeper. It’s at times like these that I cannot help but wonder if my life would be better spent had I been born to great talent in mending wounds instead of a natural aptitude for wielding a blade.”

Okita’s voice is small enough that Hijikata mistakes the quiet courage in her words for cowardice. Their world laughs at a swordsman whose achingly kind heart yearns for the hands of healer. Empty kindness would trick her mind and corrode her bones. (Hijikata never does see that it’s illness that weakens her body and plagues her mind with guilt.) 

Hijikata lowers himself onto his knees until he is level with Okita. “Talk like that is bordering on treason, Okita. Watch yourself. You carry yourself into battle with honour. Forget that or the laws you are sworn to and you should just as well kill yourself here and now.” 

Okita’s thumb strokes the bird’s straining chest in shaky lines as she nods. She finally raises her eyes to meet his gaze. Hijikata pauses, then gestures for her to hand him the bird. She looks to the ground as she does so. The snap that resounds in Okita’s ears when Hijikata breaks the bird’s neck between his thumb and forefinger is sharp and deals a thudding blow to her chest. 

“We are not trained to heal as we are to fight. In a situation like this, the best comfort we can give is death.” Hijikata’s words are cold, but his voice is merely solid. He speaks truth plainly, and Okita cannot resent him for it.

Hijikata places the bird’s still warm corpse back into Okita’s cupped palms. The gesture is clumsy, but carries a level of sentiment that’s rare of Hijikata to show. Okita looks at him in surprise. Hijikata himself wonders briefly why he hadn’t just tossed it away. 

Okita buries the fallen bird beneath the scattered leaves surrounding them. It’s the best she can do. She may not be able to mend wounds well, but she’s rather used to parting with the fallen. 

Okita likes to think that there’s almost something akin to fondness laced through Hijikata’s words as he says, “You’ve always been soft. It’s likely that you will die one day because of it, but for now I cannot deny that your blade has always struck true, regardless of whether your hands were shaking or not.” 

Hijikata stands without bothering to brush the dirt off of his knees. Their world, by nature, should rip people like Okita apart and reassemble the pieces into a crueler image. (Even when standing with another’s blood streaking down her face, Okita never appears as if it has. It’s never been cruel circumstance that’s threatened Okita’s spirit. Adapting, but not discarding pieces of her humanity in order to do so… Perhaps she would always be stronger than Hijikata in that regard.) 

“My - our - horizons will always be stained red. I suggest you learn to numb yourself to the crimson and focus on walking the path ahead of us, not straying from it,” says Hijikata. He offers Okita a hand to help her stand.

Okita coughs violently into her sleeve, then swallows a mouthful of blood. (“How much have you numbed yourself to along with the bloodshed, Hijikata-san?” she doesn’t ask, swallowing the response along with the bile and blood she tastes on the back of her tongue.) She takes Hijikata’s hand with a small smile, a thin line of pain straining between the corners of her mouth. 

Hijikata strides back to his unyielding reality. Okita walks beside him.


End file.
